


DL 2

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Corpses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: "do you think we're bad people?" a mchanzo bonnie and clyde crime duo type of deal





	

Hanzo doesn’t know when he started enjoying it.

Maybe it was the second armed robbery, or the fifth hijacking--he doesn’t know how, but somewhere along the way he developed a love for crimson spilled across skin, the thunk of an arrow embedding in bone. Even now, he delights in the carnage, the gore spattered across the train car; it’s a mess of blood red and muscle pink and white bone, corpses stretched before him like bowing, prone worshippers. The scent of death is thick in the air, thicker in his nose, rich against his tongue when he breathes in.

He could jerk off to this, he thinks.

Instead he turns around, heads back down the aisle, toward the front of the car. He finds Jesse reclined in one of the seats, his boots kicked up to rest on what’s left of the conductor’s corpse, hunched over in the seat like he’d tried to get away. Peacekeeper glints as Jesse wipes down her bloodied barrel, and in the window behind his head the New Mexico landscape whips by. 

He’s got blood in his beard--not his, Hanzo knows. His lips are twisted in a smile around the cigarrillo that hangs between them, and there’s a faint red glint still lingering in his eye as he glances up at Hanzo.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asks, nonchalant like they aren’t wanted criminals, like he’s not using a corpse for a footstool, like they both aren’t stinking of blood. “You lookin’ for a place to sit?”

He shoves Peacekeeper into her holster, and pats his lap. Hanzo can’t help but grin as he walks over, and daintily sits himself on Jesse’s thigh; one of Jesse’s strong arms wraps snug around his waist, coaxing, and Hanzo huffs in exasperation as he leans down against Jesse’s chest.

“You are a mess,” he says, voice fond. He reaches up with one hand to wipe the blood out of Jesse’s beard, and succeeds only in smearing it further across his cheek, painting red over his sun-baked skin.

_Oops._

Jesse grins at him all the same, and it’s so self-confident and cocksure that it makes Hanzo pause. He sits up enough to look around the room again, gaze travelling coldly over the cooling corpses and bloodstained seats, lives taken--just for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

“Jesse…” Hanzo settles back down, peering up at Jesse through his lashes; from this angle, he can see the beads of sweat along Jesse’s forehead. It’s tangible proof that he’s alive, where so many are not. “Do you think we’re bad people?”

“Bad people?” Jesse chuckles at that, free hand reaching up to tuck an errant piece of ink-dark hair back behind Hanzo’s ear. “Darlin’, the world’s full of and run by bad people. The way I see it, we’re just levelling the playin’ field a little, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before leaning back against the window, pulling the brim of his hat down, hankering for a nap while they wait for the train to stop; his arm tightens around Hanzo’s waist, firm and secure. Hanzo squeezes at it, mulls over Jesse’s response--thinks of his brother, lying cold in the ground by the orders of his own family, by those few who used to run Hanzo’s world.

_Bad people, indeed._

“I suppose you are right,” Hanzo murmurs, and only Jesse’s soft breath answers. He closes his eyes and lays his head down against the swell of Jesse’s chest, and settles in for the long ride to Richmond.


End file.
